


as the feeling inside keeps building

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad Matchmaking, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fitz angsts a little over everything because he is a worrier, Fitz is smitten, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Foreplay, Jemma Simmons Has No Chill, Kissing Interruptus, LLF Comment Project, Locked In, Making Out, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, Pining, Practice Kissing, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, The Sandwich, because Fitzsimmons, but nothing heavy, this is filled to the brim with tropes be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: Fitz gets enlisted by a classmate to play matchmaker for their friends. The crush he is sporting for her can be seen from space, but that's not even the difficult part; the difficult part is that Jemma and the cosmos keep pushing him into ridiculous situations until it gets impossible for him to resist her.[Written for TFSN Secret Valentine]





	as the feeling inside keeps building

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jemfitzsimmons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemfitzsimmons/gifts).



> Written for @jemmafitzsimmons for TFSN Secret Valentine exchange. The prompt was: any sort of college AU. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from "If it kills me" by Jason Mraz
> 
> Rated M for language, naked making out, fade-to-black sex ~~and a dick pic~~

“Hey! Leopold Fitz, right? I need your help.”

Fitz doesn’t turn around immediately upon hearing the request, because he knows exactly who is the owner of that voice, and there is no way this is happening. He is dreaming, or, or, _ or  _ he fell down the stairs and hit his head so hard that he is hallucinating. He has a history of brain trauma, it would be really easy for a small injury to exacerbate his tendency to-

He pinches himself. It hurts. He is not sold entirely on this being real, but just in case, he can not keep on ignoring the person who is talking to him. 

The _ girl  _ who is talking to him.

The brilliant, pretty, _incredible_ english girl who is talking to him.

Again, he is not entirely sold on this being real life.

“Um, you do?”

She doesn’t need academic help, and he can’t think of anything else he has to offer. He knows she is taking this class for fun, not because she needs it for her degree, and yet he struggles to keep himself on top of the class. She is not getting her PhD in Engineering, but she is sharp and opinionated, and she forces him to be on his toes all the time if he doesn’t want to start lagging behind. It’s exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

When he finally looks at her, she is holding a hand to her chest, trying to keep her breathing under control.

“Jemma Simmons.” Fitz looks down at the hand she is extending, and it takes him a solid thirty seconds to realize that he is supposed to shake it. He knows who she is and her name and even her marks; he is almost sure that she knows his, too, and he doesn’t understand what is this strange dance. Weren’t they supposed to be bitter rivals or something like that?  

(That’s what he told Mack once, after a terrible afternoon that ended in too many chips and a beer, that he thinks she is amazing. Mack suggested, matter of fact as he always is, that he asked her out. Fitz went all dramatic on him- or so both Mack and Hunter always tell, Fitz refuses to acknowledge it- and declared that she was trying to one-up him all the time in the class that is supposed to be his specialty, and not hers, and she obviously hates his guts, because what any other reasons would she have to be biting him in the ass so much?

“Maybe that is just the way she is, Turbo,” said Mack.

“Maybe she literally wants to bite you in the ass,” said, of course, Hunter.)

“I know who you are.” He is not trying to be mean, he really isn’t, but he is a scientist, and facts need to be stated.

“Oh, right, yes, of course.” She looks nervous, like she feels out of place, and Fitz looks down at her wringing hands, confused. “I probably should skip the pleasantries, since they are not my forte anyway, shouldn’t I?” She hardens her expression, and that is the Jemma Simmons she knows from too many glances from the corners of his eyes. “You are friends with Alphonso Mackenzie, right?”

Of all the things he would have expected her to ask, that one wasn’t on the list.

“Um, yes. Yeah, I am.” He doesn’t understand why she tried to one-up him so much before; he’s a moron, and in no way an actual competition for her. “Why?”

Instead of answering, Jemma tugs on his arm so they exit the classroom together, a somewhat frightening gleam in her eyes.

“I need to ask a favour from you.”

* * *

 

They go for tea together, stereotypes be damned. Fitz worries for so long over if he should or shouldn’t pay, wondering if it could be interpreted as pretentious or imposing, that when he snaps out of his daze, Simmons is already handing him a warm cup of Earl Grey and a danish pastry. He gapes at her, and she gives him a looped smile.

“I’m the one asking you for a favour, meaning the less I can do is invite you for tea, yes?”

What _ even  _ is this woman.

They sit down and he doesn’t touch his cup for the first couple of minutes, even though he usually drinks it scolding hot; he doesn’t want her to ask him something while he has his mouth full of liquid, because he will probably spit it all over her or choke to death or something. With his luck and his record, the odds of nothing happening are very very low. 

Meanwhile, Jemma Simmons- unaffected, of course, by all the possible tragic trajectories the world could take- sits down, takes a sip of her own cup and folds her hands on her lap primly.  

“Let’s get down to business. I need you to play matchmaker with me.” 

There it is, the thing that would have made him spill his tea all over her.  _ Good one, Fitz, preventing disasters for once instead of provoking them. _

_ Wait, what? _

Does she want him to set her up with someone? Oh, God that’s why she asked if he was friends with Mack, right? Of course she would like to be set-up with someone like Mack, who is smart and kind and an impressive specimen of a man- Fitz is not blind, he notices things. He will have to do it, because they could be good for each other, and he will have to shove this ball of tentative, blossoming, confusing feelings back to where it belongs, or else he will find himself pathetically crying alone at their wedding and if he is going to be best man he cannot cry, and wait, would it be morally right for him to be best man of a wedding while he has feelings for the bride, even if those feelings are of a nature certainly not yet deciphered completely but better safe than-      

“-friends with Daisy, and I thought that-”

He frowns at hearing Daisy’s name, what does Daisy has to do with any of this? And then he realizes that he stopped listening to her while he panicked for several seconds. 

“Wait, what?” She blinks, but doesn’t say anything, like she has no idea where she lost him, and Fitz is forced to explain himself. “Um, Daisy. What does Daisy have to do with this?”

She looks at him like he has just grown a second head, and he can feel his cheeks burning up.

“Daisy, Daisy Johnson? You took a Programming class together, right?” He nods; he knew the two of them were close friends- no, it’s because he’s friends _ with Daisy  _ not because he knows everything about Jemma Simmons, _ stop it- _ , but he still doesn’t know what has Daisy to do with Simmons and Mack’s impending wedding. “Well, that certainly make things easier. Don’t you agree with me that they would make a lovely couple?”

It’s now his turn to blink, her words unable to penetrate his comprehension. And then, it all clicks: she doesn’t want him to set her up with Mack; she wants him to help her set _ Daisy  _ up with Mack. He feels so relieved at the revelation that he lets out an involuntary laugh; Simmons looks at him with her eyebrows raised.

“It’s funny because it’s almost like you read my mind, Simmons,” he tries to justify himself. “That is exactly what I think.”

* * *

He tries to put a name to the _ Operation Get Daisy and Mack Together  _ that isn’t so revealing, but Simmons comes over him with all her full veto power (he protests that nobody gave her full veto-powers, but she replies that yet she has them), and he has to settle for the dull name and knowing that they are doing something good for both of their friends.

Simmons told him how Daisy didn’t plain out asked her for help, but that her feminine intuition- he tries his hardest to not frown his nose at that; he is not sure he succeeds- allowed her to know that her friend was really hang up on Mack, and that she wasn’t going to make a move on her own. Which- Simmons says and Fitz agrees- is very un-Daisy-like, but well, people change when love is on the line, right?

(The way Simmons says it is supposed to sound romantic, but it actually is more strained, like she is talking from what she read on a book and not from real experience; he is on the verge of asking her, but he is not capable yet of not making a mess out of himself in front of her most of the time, so he better keeps quiet.) 

Fitz believes that Mack is a grown man- in all possible senses that expression has- who doesn’t need his help or anyone’s else to date, but, one, a little meddling in one friend’s romantic life can’t hurt no one, right?; and, two, Jemma Simmons is asking, and maybe he is already discovering that he is physically incapable of saying no to her.

She is waiting for him with another cup of tea when he gets out of class the next day, and his heart climbs to his throat so fast that he can’t keep contained the words that spill out of him. 

“How do you know my schedule?”

She rolls her eyes, but it looks affectionate, and his heart refuses to  come down.

“I’m observant.” She makes a pause, just for dramatism. “And I have informants.”

Ah, that means that Daisy snitches to her. He takes a mental note that it would be only fair for Daisy to give him information too, so next time he can be the one to  have a nice gesture with her. 

Except that why would he want to have a nice gesture with Simmons? What, what, what, _ why?  _ He is so befuddled by his own question that he doesn’t realize Simmons already has plans for them both until she is trailing towards other one of the coffee houses, chatting non-stop, and he is lagging behind, eyes lost in the horizont.

* * *

He has always known they will get along, ever since the first time she raised her hand on the air to answer a question faster than him, and he found out from the gossip mill that she was actually getting her PhD in biochem, and not engineering. She was british, younger than most if not all of their peers, and obviously quite brilliant; he had to believe that they would make a good team, because he was all those things and hadn’t managed so far to actually click with anyone- Mack and Hunter aren’t students, and they didn't count; she was his only hope, pun intended. 

He has always known they will get along, but he never had the opportunity before to put it to the test, what with her trying to one-up him all the time, making him think that she hates his guts. 

“First of all, I wanted to thank you for your willingness to help me. It’s no little feat, considering the feelings you sport towards me and everything.”

“Wha’, what, what feelings?” he croaks; he knows she is a prodigy, but realizing the way he feels about her would involve something closer to superpowers than an above-average intellect.

Simmons makes a vague gesture with her hand, “The animosity and all that.”

Animosity? What animosity?

“Excuse me, but _ you  _ are the one who _ hates  _ me, not the other way around!” Well, maybe sounding so accusing it’s not exactly the best way to make her believe him, but, _ well. _

She blinks at him, unimpressed.

“That is a false accusation if I have ever heard one.”

Fitz scoffs.

“Yeah, right, because _ I  _ was the one trying to one-up you all the bloody time.”

She frowns her nose, leans forward on the table to level her eyes with his.

“Don’t take it personal, _ Leopold; _ I one-up _ everyone. _ It’s just who I am. But you were the one, indeed, who refused to look me in the eyes whenever we were in discussion group together, or didn’t care to say hi when we crossed paths on a hallway, like I wasn’t even there.”

Fitz feels his cheeks coloring quickly; okay, he will give her that: it wasn’t that he hated her, but he is naturally shy, and he had such hopes for her that the stakes were high; he couldn’t mess up a wonderful possibility by saying something inadequate, and so he chose the silence over the risk. But maybe it’s too soon into this tentative thing between them  for him to tell her that.

“Well, that’s who _ I  _ am,” he replies while crossing his arms over his chest. This conversation is making him feel a little uncomfortable, and a physical barrier has always helped him feel more guarded emotionally.

“Rude?”

“No. Shy.”

He wasn’t planning on blurting it out just like that, but the hope that this can blossom into something great it’s still there and still alive. It might be the right thing to do, because he can see her eyes soften at his reply, and she even nods a little; he would pay a high price to know what is going on inside her head. 

“Sorry,” she sounds genuinely appalled, and Fitz wrings his hands. “Didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“It’s cool.” A pause. “It was a little worse with you because I wanted to talk to you so badly.”

“It’s that so?” Her eyes light up, and Fitz’s heart speeds up, and he _ knows  _ that correlation doesn’t imply causation. And yet. “And why would that be?”

“Well, let’s just say that a lot of people can try to one-up me, but  _ succeed? _ Not so many.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and Fitz can’t help his own smile. 

* * *

They end up talking shop and home and favourites, and very little about the Very Importation Operation that brought them together in the first place.

She asks him to call her Jemma  _ (“Simmons makes me feel like I’m in grad school again, and ugh, grad school, how dull”) _ , and he asks her to not even under the risk of death call him Leopold. She laughs unabashedly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, and it’s such a pretty sight that he loses track of what she says after for a couple of seconds.

To be honest, he can live with that.

* * *

The next time he arrives to the class they share, she is not sitting at the front row, that is her usual place, but instead at his: in the middle of the room, close enough that he can pay attention whenever he wants, but not too close that he can not do his own thing when he prefers.

He stands at the beginning of the row of seats, frozen, but Jemma gestures for him to come closer.

“I wanted to find out what do you like so much about this place, if you don’t mind,” she tells him casually, twisting one curl of hair on her left index finger. 

Fitz wrings out his brain for a witty come back.

“Cool,” is all his tongue and his brain working together can achieve.

So much for a child prodigy.

Normally, he would spend most of the class doodling for his own projects, only paying attention to take note of a reference book that may have something useful. Maybe. But Jemma in all his proper and prim perfection is sitting next to him, and he doesn’t want her to judge him, which means that he tries his best to at least look like he is listening to the lecture.

That’s why he almost yelps in surprise when Jemma, face perfectly composed and without moving her eyes from the front of the room, elbows him on the ribs and passes him a folded note.

Her neat hand script is not a surprise, neither is the smiley face she put on the outside of the note, but the fact that _ Jemma Simmons  _ passes notes during class with a straight face? Totally unexpected. 

_ Wanna hang out after class? Got an idea for our small project. _

He bites his lower lip while he passes it back, a little ashamed of his messy handwriting.

_ Sorry, got study group. Not that it helps much, but can’t skip. Lunch tomorrow? _

He would swear that her face falls just a tiny bit at reading his reply, but he has to be imagining things, because that makes _ no sense. _

_ Sure thing! _

* * *

Fitz doesn’t bring her up when he gets together that night with Hunter and Mack for their customary weeknight of videogames and pizza. He assures himself that is because it would spoil the whole point of the Very Secret Operation they got going, but in reality he wants to keep this soft, small bundle of warm happiness for only himself for a little longer. If he tells his friends, it will make it real, and if it’s real, there are also expectations and disappointments attached to it. 

If the next day or the day after that Jemma Simmons decides that the Very Secret Operation isn’t worth talking to him of all people, he can go back to his dull routine of school, work, bed, and wallow on his misery in peace, without his friends’ pity and misguided good intentions to cheer him up.

But the next day Jemma is waiting for him at the end of his last morning class, with a brown bag on each hand, and maybe Fitz can allow himself to have this happiness for a little longer.

* * *

Jemma is talking, he knows, but he can’t hear anything over the sound of how delicious the sandwich she made for him is. He puts a hand up to stop her mid-speech, because she blessed him with this great accomplishment of humanity; she doesn’t deserve to have to repeat everything again because he is too enthralled.

“This is the best thing I have ever eaten,” he declares after swallowing.

Jemma smiles at him, picking at the plastic wrapping of her own sandwich,

“I can’t believe that is true, but I’m glad I’m now in your life to feed you properly.”  

He takes another bite of the sandwich, because there is nothing he can reply to that that wouldn’t make her run for the hills.

“Um, you said you had an idea? For the Daisy and Mack thing?” He is deflecting, but he needs to focus again on the alleged point of this... relationship? Blossoming friendship? Whatever this is?

“Oh, yes!” Jemma claps her hands together excitedly. “We need to arrange a double date.”

Fitz is glad he didn’t have time to bite on the sandwich again, because he knows he would have choked on it.

“What?!?” He is not proud of his screeching, but it is what it is, and Simmons looks at him disapprovingly.

“I understand that I might not be your type, but I am a nubile young prodigy with an above-average fashion sense, I don’t believe I deserve that out-right rejection.” She tries to mask it as a joke, but there is an undeniable edge of hurt behind her words, and Fitz rushes to try to correct himself.

“I don’t, that’s not what I, I just-” He hasn’t stammered this much in a long while, and he rubs a hand down his face, frustrated. “Look, you are all that and much more, and any bloke would be honoured to take you out in any kind of date.” He makes a pause, bites his lip, wonders if he has said too much even though she is still not looking him back in the eyes. “I was surprised, that’s all.”

“Believe me, if I were asking you out, you would know.” She winks at him but the humour doesn’t shine on her eyes, and Fitz is choking on air so much that he has no time to articulate a reply before she gets serious again. “We just tell them that we are in the early stages of dating, and we would appreciate if they go out with us as a buffer of some sorts, since we are trying things out.”

He is on the verge of calling everything off, telling her that Mack and Daisy are two adults more than capable to set up their own dates, but this kind of thing doesn’t happen to Leopold Fitz, much less involving a girl like Jemma Simmons, and if the cosmos decided to throw this opportunity on his lap, who is he to turn it away?

“Okay.”

* * *

He knows he is getting late for his, um, his “date”. He _ knows.  _

Mostly, because he is doing it on purpose.

Look, have you never set yourself for failure, consciously or unconsciously, for something that you desperately wanted to go well? Just to have an excuse to blame when things go south, instead of the reason being, well, _ yourself?  _ No?

Well, he has and he is.  

He tells himself that only a couple adjustments more, that if he leaves in the middle of things now, tomorrow he will have to start from scratch, that he doesn’t need that much time to change, that is not even a real date anyway, that-

He is so immersed on his own head that he doesn’t hear the calls for his name until Jemma has gone through enough doors for him to see her. 

“Imagined you would be still here.”

“How did you know?” They have been friends, actual friends, for a little over two weeks; there is no way she has picked up on his nasty habits all that quickly. 

“Oh, mostly because is what I do myself.” The explanation makes sense, but doesn't explain the pink on her cheeks and why she is refusing to meet his eyes. He lets it go, because she is not the one at fault here. “Come on, you can not take a lady out smelling like metal, can you?”

Something on his gut turns at the look- blushing, in a nice fitting dress, biting her lower lip- and the sound- pretending to be teasing, but actually breathless- of her. His heart is beating fast enough that he can not count the beats anymore, and for an instant, he thinks that maybe, _ maybe, _ if he were to come closer and kiss her, she wouldn’t turn him down. There is electricity on the air, and a brilliant girl who came looking for him in a bright yellow dress, and life doesn’t give many chances like this one, at least not to people like him.

But he is a coward, and this girl is way out of his league, and he likes her too much to risk what can indudably become an epic friendship just because her lips look too appealing with that lip-gloss she got on. He doesn't want things to get awkward between them because she had to reject him, because he couldn’t keep his big mouth shout.

Mostly, he is just a coward, and he beats himself up in his mind when Jemma takes his hand and drags him towards the door of the lab.

“Come on, we are going to be late!”

Oh, they are _ so  _ going to be late, because when they arrive to the last door, Fitz hastily turning off lights and putting away tools on their wake, they find out that the last door that connects with the hallway has already been closed. With them still inside.   

Fitz scrambles looking for his keys on his pockets, but his hands come out empty. He is never the first one to arrive, but usually is the last one to leave, but because of the date, he opted to leave them home today. Or maybe it was just another way to sabotage himself. He looks at her from the corner of his eyes; she is looking at the door like she can not believe something like this is happening, both eyebrows raised up to her forefront. Fitz decides he will deal with her when he has a solution at least half-cooked, and shoots a message to the group chat he has with some of the other engineers, asking if any of them is around to let him out of the lab.

The replies he gets consist of: some party emojis, an audio of someone laughing, a dick pic. Luckily, it looks like something downloaded from google, and not an actual dick pic of the one who sent the message. (He can’t believe that he is using the word “luckily” in the same sentence than the expression “dick pic”. What even is his life.) Bloody useless they are, the lot of them. 

He could pick the lock, of course. He is considering that option, wondering if Jemma would find the fact that he _ knows  _ how to pick a lock hot or concerning. Maybe both. He can handle both.

_ Fitz! Focus! You are not making a move on her, and you don’t want her to find you sexy! Of course, it wouldn’t hurt, but it can’t be your main concern now, because if you let that become your main concern, you won’t be able to stop yourself from-. Focus! _

He is chewing on his thumbnail, thinking, when two icy hands take his own to pull it apart from his mouth. 

“What-?” He raises his head at the very same time that Jemma looks down to peer over his phone. He is glad she winces at seeing the picture, because he is not sure what he would have done otherwise, with her face close enough for him to see every freckle on her nose.

“I take your labmates aren’t coming to let us out, then.”

He sighs and shoves the cellphone deep in his pocket, effectively hiding the offending picture.

“No, they are not.”

“Can’t you call somebody to bring over your keys?” she asks at the same time that he begins, “Well, I guess picking the lock is our only option.”

She looks at him in shock, her mouth hanging open.

“And damage school property? Not on my watch, Leopold Fitz!”

Okay, he hates people calling him by his first name, but the way his entire name rolls out of her tongue? Sends shivers down his arms to his fingertips. He tuts, forcefully ignoring the sensation.

“I promise I will fix it later? And that way we won’t be late for the date!”  

She shakes her head no.

“I am sure Daisy and Mack won’t mind if we have to reschedule.” She turns her back on him, cutting short his right to reply. “Now get on that phone call and show me around.”

* * *

He should have known better than to ask Hunter for a favour, but if he is being honest… he kind of doesn’t mind the delay.

They let Daisy and Mack know that they won’t make it- he heard Simmons whispering to Daisy that they should totally get out together if they wanted, but he couldn’t ask what was Daisy’s reply without confessing to eavesdropping- and then the only thing that was left to do was wait. Jemma insisted he took advantage of the unexpected extra time to get ahead of work, and that’s how they ended at his work bench, Fitz adjusting nuts and bolts, Jemma sitting on top of the counter, asking a million questions a minute and putting the discarded tools neatly back where they belong inside his toolbox.

His mind is a whirlwind, too many stimuli and too many feelings arising on his chest. He wants to put her inside his pocket and take her everywhere with him- her insightful questions and her witty comments would surely improve not only his work, but also his social life. He wants to ask her if she always sits up on counters, but he doesn’t want her to feel self-conscious and get down- he is guilty of enjoying too much all that creamy skin and those dancer legs at display.

Instead, he says, “You know, you don’t have to worry about tidying my tools. I can take care of them tomorrow.”

She tuts at him, and wiggles her hips. Fitz screws a bolt with a tiny bit more force than strictly necessary to not think about all the things he would like to do to her up on that counter and that would involve her doing a lot of movements like that. 

“But a tidy lab is a happy lab!”

She sounds genuine and happy, and his heart melts. He knows that they don’t know each other enough for him to be having feelings this intense, but he can't help himself; they click together, and all the fantasies he had while observing her from a distance seem to be true: she gets him, and his work and the way his mind goes about things in a way he has never experienced before.

Instead of blurting out all that, he nods, tight, and a comfortable silence falls upon them.

“You know,” she begins after a while, and when he looks at her, sees that she is biting her lip, her legs quicking slightly. “if we want to convince Daisy and Mack that there might be something between us, we will need to be physically affectionate with each other. And, um.” She blushes and averts her eyes, and Fitz’s throat feels way too dry. “Maybe we should kiss? Beforehand? To not risk anything in front of them?”

He knows his mouth is hanging open, but apparently his muscles forgot how to work properly. She can _ not  _ be suggesting that they kiss- practice-kiss, whatever- _ now, _ can’t she?   

“Now? You mean now?” he croaks, and if his face weren’t already beet-red, he would blush out of embarrassment at the sound.

Jemma straightens her back and smiles, looking much more like her usual confident self.    

“What better time than the present?”

He is breathing, but no air is getting to his lungs, and he considers pinching himself, like he did when she first spoke to him, but she is no taking her eyes away from him, and it would be weird for him to pinch himself right after she declared that they should kiss.

_ You can always say no, _ says a kind voice inside his head that sounds a little like her, but the problem isn’t that he doesn’t want to kiss her; it’s that he wants to kiss her _ too much _ , and he doesn’t know if he can conceal those feelings while kissing her, and if he will he be able to go back to nothing after knowing what her lips taste like.

“Okay.” His voice doesn’t tremble, but he is too busy looking composed to be proud for achieving it.

“Come here.” Her voice is soft, and Fitz swallows down a whimper that gets stuck on his throat and prevents him from talking. 

Instead, he follows her instructions and stands awkwardly near her legs, don’t knowing exactly where would be the best place to be. Jemma gets off the counter to stand up near him, and ends up trapped between him and the counter. Fitz is about to take a step back to give her some space, but she wraps her arms behind his neck, getting them even closer together, and he can not breathe, much less move. 

Everything is her, he can see every freckle dotting her face, and the bright tips of her eyelashes, and even every small imperfection on her skin, that work all together to make a masterpiece. Everything is the sweet hint of her perfume and the sound of her breathing, and the way her chest is rising against his, and her hands warming up against the sensitive skin of his neck. 

That is the moment when he should back off; this moment holds weight enough to utterly wreck him, leave him unable to put himself back together, and maybe he shouldn’t have this kind of feelings for a woman who has been his friend for about three weeks, but for a woman that he has been observing quietly for months, and that has proven to be every ounce of smart and amazing and kind that he imagined her to be, and then some? Absolutely.          

He _ should  _ back off, but he doesn’t; he can not take his gaze away from the curve of her lips and the barely visible pink tip of her tongue between her teeth. If this is something that changes him forever, so be it. 

Jemma makes the first step and graces her lips against his; Fitz barely can process the texture of them and it’s not enough to taste her. He groans, unleashed at least, and drags her closer by the hips, Jemma tilts her head slightly to give him better access, and he is half an inch away from a kiss that is making him so hungry he feels dizzy with it, and- 

“Oi! Mate, you said you were working in the lab, didn’t know your project was a bird!”

Hunter, of course. Always the best timing.

Fitz tries to break away, but it takes Jemma a second to release her hold on him, and when she finally does, she doesn’t rush towards excuses and grimaces of shame; she just stands there, cheeks flushed and difficult breathing. At least she doesn’t mind being seen with him in a, ehr, somewhat compromised situation?

Hunter is smirking at them, but Fitz doesn’t dignify him with a reply; instead, he snatches with one hand Jemma’s purse and with the other takes her hand and leads her out of the lab. 

He doesn’t realize he is still holding her hand until they have traversed two hallways, and since she hasn’t let go so far, he doesn’t either.

* * *

That night he lays down in bed, painfully awake.

He doesn’t regret not having kissed her after all; it clearly wasn’t meant to be, and is probably for the best, as far as his mental stability is concerned. 

But he can’t help replaying the whole sequence on his head: on one hand, that she was the one that suggested they should kiss; on the other, how nice it had been to have her there, have someone who understands his work, someone that doesn’t require him to level down his shop talk; someone who is, likely, even smarter than he is. 

Can he risk all that for a slim chance at something more? Chances are high that she suggested it because she could sense his nerves and wanted to make things easier and smoother for him; she is _ that  _ kind. He keeps thinking about that possibility until he convinces even himself.

(Anyhow, he can not stop thinking either about what Hunter said after they dropped Jemma at her flat.

“I don’t know, mate, that didn’t look like a pity kiss to me.”

“For the last time, I said _ practice, _ you are the one that keeps bringing back the word _ pity.” _

“Same thing.”)

* * *

The next monday, Jemma is once again waiting for him at the end of his class, waving a stack of papers in front of his face.

“The paper I mentioned the other day. I think you might find it quite useful?”

Their hands brush against each other when he takes it from her, and he tries to conceal the shiver; if she doesn’t bring up the failed kiss, he won’t be the one to do it. Instead, they go to lunch together, and Jemma talks a mile a minute about this neurotoxin she had been designing ever since forever on her side time, but that never grow into a serious project because she lacked the right delivery mechanism for it, but that thing he had been working on the other day might be just it, and _ , oh, Fitz, this could be so grand. _

He misses his next class, their brainstorming gets that intense. This could, indeed, be grand, and they are really fitted to work together, with their ideas feeding off each other and with the way they get each other almost effortlessly. There are bumps to be smoothed, sure, but till now, every partner has been for him more an annoyance than an actual help, and a couple hours of just planning with Jemma had made him dizzy with possibilities. 

She invites him over to her lab for the next day, and they part smiling like maniacs, and Fitz can almost, _ almost,  _ trick himself into believing that what happened in his lab didn’t mean anything. 

* * *

He barely remembers the original “purpose” of his alliance with Jemma when, a week into their de facto partnership, she asks him out again.

Well, sort of.

“We should go out for dinner and a movie this weekend.” She doesn’t give his brain enough time to process before toppling down his hopes. “I tell Daisy, you tell Mack?”

He tries to not be dissapointed. He really really tries. They are working together on something great, they have inside jokes, they tease each other, they share dreams and hobbies and random thoughts. They text through the day non stop. They are friends, good friends, great friends even. He shouldn’t be disappointed because they are not anything more, and he tries to be.  

(Really trying doesn’t mean he succeeds.) 

* * *

It’s hard to not have expectations or at least a vague sensation of deja vu when, once again, she comes looking for him in the lab. She is wearing a skirt, something purple and shiny that makes her skin look straight up lickable. (He wishes, sometimes, that he had the force of will to slap himself when he has those kind of thoughts, to see if he can develop a Pavlovian reaction against it, but well, he us only human.)

She dangles a key in front of his face upon her arrival, smiling broadly. 

“I had to make sure we don’t have a reprise of last time, hadn't I?”   

Something twists on his stomach, and he inspects the key.

“How did you get this?”

She just winks at him.

“A girl has her ways. And if you didn’t work till this late, a girl wouldn’t need to have her ways!”

Unbelievable. She is unbelievable.

“Jemma Simmons, workaholic extraordinaire, is telling me that I work too much. Outstanding.”

She laughs, carefree and happy, and really, who told his stomach that it was okay to be affected this much by her?

“I never said anything about ‘too much’! I just said too late! Quite the opposite, I rise with the sun to go to work, as one should.”

“Don’t get started again on how I should get up and go to sleep at a decent hour,” he grumbles, even while he packs his stuff up, leads her out the door and locks it- with his own key, mind you. “Ehrm, Jemma?”

She doesn’t reply, and he turns to look at her; she is looking at him, and it takes her an extra second to snap out of it and realize that he is pointing outside.

“Yeah, sorry, what?”

“You didn’t tell me it was pouring!”

_ “What?  _ Oh my god! It was a beautiful day when I got here, I don’t even know what are all these clouds!”

She is in hysterics, and Fitz squeezes her wrist in an attempt to calm her down.

“It’s not that bad, it’s only a couple of blocks to the entry of campus, and then we can take a cab there.” He takes off his jacket and puts it across her shoulders. “Do you think you can brave it?” 

She exhales sharply, but nods, and hand in hand they both venture into the rain.

* * *

It takes them forever to get a cab that welcomes them, soaking wet as they are, and Jemma gives the cabdriver the direction of her flat instead of the restaurant where they are supposed to meet Daisy and Mack.

“We have some extra times, and our outfits are ruined,” she explain-whispers, and Fitz only nods, too focused on pushing back the feelings the idea of going to her home to change clothes arises in his chest.

Her apartment is exactly how one would expect Jemma Simmons’ home to be: pristine clean, tidy to the nines, full of science memorabilia and work-related stuff, but with an undeniable glow of warmth and comfort nevertheless.

She takes off her drenched shoes and Fitz follows suit without taking his eyes of the Tardis-printed teapot he can see on a shelf. Jemma opens a linen closet, takes out a couple towels, and offers one to him while she starts drying off her hair with the other one. 

“Pity, I really liked this skirt.”

“Yeah, me too.” _ Damn. Damn. Damn damn damn damn.  _ “Ehrm, I mean-” He doesn’t have time to come up with an excuse, though, because she starts unzipping it.

_ What the hell is going on? _

Jemma lets the skirt fall to the floor and steps out of it, wearing only a pair of black shorts that barely count as underwear. 

“I will have to make sure that I wear it to another date, then.” She winks at him and disappears towards the bedroom in all the glory of her toned legs, and Fitz wonders if this is what an aneurysm feels like.

He hasn’t moved when she comes back three minutes later wearing a pair of jeans that go nicely with her blouse, but can not compete with the purple skirt, carrying a blue shirt, and shooing him towards the bathroom, without giving him time to refuse or ask anything.

The shirt is a little big around the shoulders for him, and he bites his tongue imagining the _ tall, well-muscled, symmetrical  _ ex-boyfriend who was, no doubt, its previous owner. When he comes out, feeling self-conscious and small, Jemma is making tea, and that lifts his spirit a little.

“Daisy just texted to say she won’t be making it in this downpour, and it makes no sense for us to go without them, but maybe you want to stay until it eases off a little?” 

It’s a test a little above his restraint level, he thinks, to be in her home, wearing clothes she lend him and being domestic and comforting with her. He probably shouldn’t stay.

He stays.

 

* * *

They don’t have time to set any other date- pretend double date or otherwise- for the next three weeks, two busy with final presentations and deadlines and their little side project, that keeps growing in ideas and possibilities and dedication at an alarming rate. That doesn’t mean they don’t see each other; they are together all the time, sharing lunch and exchanging ideas in the middle of the night and keeping the other from unhinging with jokes and tea and the general comfort that there is someone who understands. Fitz can not remember what his life was like before, she has effortlessly made a place for herself in every aspect of his life; that morning in october when she first talked to him divided his life in two very different eras: before Jemma Simmons and after Jemma Simmons. 

Hunter keeps insisting that he should make a move on her, that there is no reward without risks, but Fitz shoos him away; he knows his friend’s advice comes from the bottom of his heart, but he is convinced that Hunter can only uphold that philosophy because he never had himself a friendship slash partnership with so much potential; and also, Hunter probably doesn't understand that Fitz doesn’t have to try for more, because what they have can be enough, he doesn’t _ need  _ more, right?

_ Right? _

That is, until Jemma comes to him in early February and looks him over with a tilted head.

“I may or may not need to raid your wardrobe.”

_ What? _

“What?”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love your cardigans, but we want you to look your best for our party, don’t we?”

Is she high? Or something?

There is a million questions fighting to blurt out of his mouth, and the first one to win is, “What party?”

“Our Valentine’s Day party, of course.” She dismiss his question with a hand gesture. “An excellent opportunity for people to meet people, and for people who are in the verge of falling together to finally take the plunge and do it. And if ‘people’ ends up meaning ‘your friend and my friend’, well, all the better, don’t you think?”

Fitz rubs the space between his eyebrows with his thumb; it’s too early for the headache he can feel forming behind his eyes.

“Oookay, and why, I dare ask, is it _ our  _ party?”

“Oh.” Jemma averts her eyes and blushes. “Well, you know, everyone assumes we are a _ thing, _ so, um, I assumed-, sorry if it-, I didn’t mean to-”

There is something tightening on his stomach at the idea that everyone assumes that they are in a relationship, with everything that implies, and well, it’s not that he doesn’t think about it all the time, but to know that other people think about it too-. He shakes his head.  _ Focus, Fitz, focus.  _

“Jemma.” He places a hand on her elbow to stop her rambling. “I’m not mad. If you want us to throw a Valentine's Day party, we will throw a Valentine's Day party.” 

She beams, and his heart speeds up at the sight; he would be embarrassed if anyone found out the sheer amount of things he would be willing to do in order to be blessed by that smile as often as possible.

“Okay. Then we will do this.” Her insecurities vanish into thin air, and she holds his arm while she speaks a mile a minute about all the things they can do to make their party the best party ever- because Jemma Simmons doesn’t do anything half-assed-, and Fitz is listening to her, but he is also being overwhelmed by the raw force of his feelings for her.

* * *

Things don’t go as planned. That is not necessary a bad thing, it’s just a fact.

They keep things relatively calm, it’s not a world-stopping party, more like around two dozens of people hanging on Jemma’s flat with some sick music, nice appetizers and a concerning amount of alcohol going around. Daisy and Mack hit it off immediately upon their arrival, and Fitz has lost them a while ago, so he guesses they can consider the party already a success. He has never been the kind of person that tears his hair out for being single on Valentine’s Day, but there is something undeniably nice about Jemma holding his hand all night long, and if he can draw this much happiness from a fake relationship, he can only hope the bliss of a real one upon his friends.

Jemma looks stunning tonight, and yes, it’s because of the black dress that clings to her skin like a glove, but also it’s her conversation and her smile and the shine in her eyes that make Fitz feel like he is constantly riding a roller-coaster when he is with her. Her hand is perpetually cold, and he has learnt every crease of it with just the pad of his thumb: her thin knuckles and her palm, rough from the extended contact with reactants, and her long, nimble fingers that are meant to save the world; he has been granted the privilege of holding all of it close and safe for an entire night; he can only cherish it.

He is an adult who can hold his liquor, but he is still careful with how much he drinks; he is not about to left her hanging, but he also doesn’t want to waste this opportunity of just _ being  _ with her. Jemma is not drinking much either, and that’s why Fitz is surprised when, around midnight, she looks at him with cheeks flushed, shining eyes and a breathless demand. He is sure she is not drunk on alcohol, but she must be drunk on something else.

“You know, for the host couple, we have been behaving way too stiff with each other so far.” The volume of the music is not loud enough for her to be whispering on his ear like this, but he is not complaining; this way he gets a whiff of her perfume and her lips touching his earlobe.

“Is that so?” He would like to have a more witty remark, or even a teasing one, but he is smitten with her and, to be honest, there is no point in hiding it; he doesn’t expect anything from her, but that doesn’t mean he is lying to himself anymore about his actual feelings.

“Yeah.” Her smile is enticing and everything that is sinful on this world, and when she pushes him to sit down on the couch, he realizes that he would let her do anything to him. “The good thing is that we still got time to fix it.”

She sits down on his lap, straddling his hips, her short dress bunching up her legs, and it takes every ounce of willpower in Fitz’s body to not look down to check if her thighs are as smooth as he imagines them. His hands go automatically to her hips to hold her down, and she smiles wickedly at him. He is expecting it when her lips settle over his, but that doesn’t mean he is ready for it.

She kisses him fast and hard, with a burning passion that he has come to associate with everything she does. What is unexpected is the lingering sweetness in the way she strokes her fingers up and down his neck, her light touch sending shivers down his spine. He hesitates for a second- is it messed up for this to be a real kiss with fake feelings for her, and a fake kiss with real feelings for him?- but he yields quickly; even the strongest resolution has limitations, and apparently a soft, warm Jemma Simmons sitting on his lap and pushing her tongue inside his mouth is beyond his.

He kisses her back. There is a bitter taste climbing up his throat, but if this is the only opportunity he will have to kiss her, he is going to seize it. She doesn’t taste like alcohol, but instead like cherry chapstick and delicious heat, and Fitz licks his way inside her mouth, eager to be closer, to touch her everywhere and embed her skin on the palm of his hands. Jemma moans brokenly, and that spurs him on; he has the vague notion that there are encouraging noises coming from the people around them, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. Right now his world is reduced to Jemma and her hands on his face, scratching his stubble lightly, and the softness of her lips and her maddening skill and the broken notion that there is no coming back from this.

He breaks the kiss and breathes. Or: he breaks the kiss and tries to breath, but his lungs enlarge uselessly, the air choking him instead of oxygenating him. His head feels too light and too heavy at the same time, and there is an undeniable dread settling on his stomach. He is not regretting this, but he needs to stop and think before he does something he _ will  _ regret.

“Jemma, I-,” he is not exactly sure what he wants to say, but her name, god, the way his tongue curls around her name, embracing the prolonged ‘m’ sound, reveals he has way too much emotion to keep it contained inside. He is not sure about what he wants to say, exactly, but he needs to say _ something. _

“Shhh,” she silences him with another quick kiss, just a tender brushing of her lips against his, but Fitz whimpers at the contact; he is overwhelmed, and everything could be the straw that pushes him over the edge. “Later.” And just like that she jumps out of his lap, and goes on about her business, like she didn’t just wreck him completely.

Fitz stays where he is, barely enough mental clarity left to pull a cushion over his lap, and nothing else. Then, he lets his head hang loosely against the back of the couch, and a whispered curse to leave his mouth; he is not sure to which entity it should be directed, or if he should just be mad with himself; either way, this is a situacion that he can not brave without another drink, or a dozen.

* * *

Fitz stays behind after everyone else has left- Daisy and Mack exchanging heated glances not at all subtly-, partly because it’s his duty as a co-host of the party, partly because he has been going over and over everything inside his head ever since the kiss, and he has come to a conclusion: he needs to tell her. It is clear she is doing all this charade for the sake of the initial goal that brought them together, but Fitz feels ashamed and goddam awful for letting her engage in that level of intimacy when she doesn’t know how things are for him. He needs to tell her, let her make her own, informed decisions, and hope that she doesn’t want to terminate every kind of relationship with him. Despite everything, he truly believes that once he can tame these wild, inconvenient feelings, they will be able to have a great friendship.             

He lets her see the guests off while he busies himself straightening up the apartment- chances are high that Jemma will rearrange everything herself, neatness maniac as she is, but he needs to keep his hands occupied or he will freak out more than he already is.

“I think I promised you later, and now is later.” He was so busy trying to keep himself under control that he didn’t hear her coming back, and he is startled by her voice. He turns around and inhales sharply at the sight of her, her soft brown hair in a sexy disarray, the sleeves of her dress exposing her collarbones, the moonlight making her skin glow.

This is going to be much harder than he expected.

“It is.” She sends a toothy smile his way, and it weakens his knees. He gestures towards the coach, because clearly he can’t do this while standing.  “Can we sit?”

“Of course.” 

Her voice is soft but her face looks worried, and he grabs her hand to soothe her. Their tights are pressed closely together, and it’s giving him flashbacks to a couple hours earlier, and maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.

“Jemma, I need to tell you-”

“Fitz, I think it’s only fair that-”

They both stop and smile. Classical. And then, at the same time, they both go, “You first.”

They both open their mouths again immediately after, and at seeing the gesture mirroring on the other, they start laughing. Jemma squeezes his hand happily, and Fitz feels some of the tension that is shutting his chest, uncoil. It doesn’t matter if things aren’t okay right now, they sure can make them okay.

“Maybe we are doing things the wrong way,” Jemma whispers finally. “Maybe we don’t _ need  _ to talk first.”

She leans over and kisses him, knocking the air out of him in the process. Or at least that’s how he excuses himself for the handful of seconds it takes him to place his hands on her shoulders and push her gently apart.

“Jemma, I don’t think-,” he stops in the middle of the sentence, because his brain has just barely processed that she kissed him. While they are alone. Without anyone around that she might want to convince of anything. “Jemma, what’s going on?”

She bites her lip, and there is something tremulous on her face.

“Maybe you _ should  _ tell me what you wanted to tell me first, after all.”

He inhales until he completely empties his lungs, and with the last drop of air, he lets the words out.

“I can’t keep up this charade, because I like you, Jemma. Like you, as in _ like you,  _ really like you. ”

A smile explodes on her lips, and immediately she stretches her arms again towards him.

“Oh, Fitz, I like you t-”

“No, no, let me finish.” Maybe he is being a little over-masochist, but short reckonings make long friends, right? “I know we get along, God forbids I could ever work side by side with someone else the way I can with you. We are great lab partners. But, Jemma,” he makes a pause, fills his lungs with air to the brim, trying to keep his voice from shaking. She is looking at him with big intense eyes, and he wants nothing more than to get himself lost in them, but first she needs to know everything. “you are more than that to me.”

He just bared his soul to her, and she has the most unexpected reaction possible: she laughs.

“Oh, Fitz.” She grabs both his hands and squeezes them tightly. “I know. I feel the same way.”  

His jaw drops open in an uncomfortable position, but he is unable to close it back. She has to be misunderstanding what he is trying to tell her, there is no way she-

“Come again?”

“Ugh, Fitz.” She rolls her eyes, and yeah, that exasperated look is closer to what he was expecting than the smitten look she was giving him before. “What, do you think that I throw myself at every guy that works with me and shows me a bare minimum of intelligence?”

“A bare minimum! How you dare!” He scoffs, and Jemma beams at him.

“That’s one of the many reasons why I like you, Fitz.” She leans over him again and pecks him on the cheek, and he lets her, too perplexed by the whole development of things to stop it. “You can't tell me that you didn’t notice I was trying to impress you in class!” She makes a grimace, and Fitz feels a strong desire to kiss her again. “That’s not right, let me rephrase it: I was doing my best because I care about my education, and also because I am better than everyone else, and I can't help it.” She grins, and God help him, he is delirious for this girl. “But impressing you was a nice bonus.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

She covers her mouth with her hand and laughs behind it, and Fitz can not understand what is so funny about his suggestion; it would have saved him so many sleepless nights (and not to mention all the nice things he would have gained).

“Did you think that jumping on a lab counter while wearing a dress and going all ‘oh, Fitz, let’s practice some kissing’,” she makes a mean mocking impression of herself, and Fitz snickers. “was normal behaviour for me? Maybe you don’t know me as much as you think, Leopold Fitz.”

That’s it. She has reached a limit, and he can not let her go any further. He pushes slightly on her shoulders until she is laying back on the couch, and he hovers over her, his hands at the side of her shoulders. 

“Maybe _ you  _ don’t know _ me  _ so well if you think you can call me Leopold and get away with it.”

Her smile is blinding, and his head fills with cotton at the sight; there is nothing that matters more than this.

“I see no consequences for it whatsoever.”

“Oh, I will give you consequences.”

He kisses her then, insistent lips and playful teeth, but keeps a prudent distance between their bodies by keeping most of his weight on his hands. Jemma writhes behind him, one of her hands tugging firmly at the hair at the nape of his neck, the other one finding its path over his belly under his shirt.

_ “Fitz.” _ Jemma is the the one to break the kiss, panting breathlessly, and her voice is demanding but also desperate. He replies by nibbling at her neck. “Come here.” And to add emphasis to her point, he wraps her legs around his waist and tugs him down.

Being pressed against her like this is exhilarating. His body is on fire, every point of contact between them a small spring stretched tight way beyond its resistance point. He can feel Jemma’s dress bunched up around his groin, and her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her hair splayed all over the couch, he is going out of his mind from desire for this woman.

“Jemma.” His voice is broken, and all his body feels overheated; her hand that is touching directly his skin is an ember that is setting all of him on fire. 

Her only reply is to bring one of his hands to her lips and place a kiss on each one of his knuckles and then another one on his palm; he can only moan brokenly. “Don’t be afraid, Fitz. We have both said that we want this, so you can let go. I want you to let go.”

Her wish is a command, and when he lets his own desires free, the very first thing he does is lower the sleeves of her dress enough that he exposes fully her collarbones, her shoulders, her sternum, the valley between her breasts. A zap of arousal courses through his body at the sight of that expanse of creamy, freckled skin.

He begins at her ear, because there is one thing that he needs to make absolutely clear.

“I do something that you don’t like, or you change your mind, you just say the word and I will stop, okay? Can I trust you to do that?” He waits for her fervent nod to curl his tongue around her earlobe, sucking it lightly inside his mouth as some sort of reward, his hand ghosting over her sternum. 

“What was that? A reward for being such a good girl?” She is teasing him, but he can not feel offended when she is so breathless.

“If you have enough brain power left to question it, it means that I’m not doing a good enough job.”

Jemma laughs, and he press his lips hard against her throat to feel the sound reverberating there, until her laugh turns into a contented hum, and only then he slides his lips down until he is kissing down her sternum. He kisses right between her breasts and she whimpers, and Fitz looks up to check on her: eyes hooded, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open; if he weren’t already head over heels into this, that sight alone would be enough to send him spiralling.

“Maybe it’s time you take off my dress,” she suggests, and he pushes the fabric apart with his nose to nip at the fleshy part of her right breast. When he doesn’t acknowledge her suggestion, she pushes him apart to take it off herself. She is wearing a lavender ensemble with lace at the edges, that contrasts nicely against her skin. It’s suggestive without being too out there, and Fitz outlines the hem of her knickers with his thumb, soaking all of it up.

Instead of being intimidated by her state of undress, he feels encouraged by her trust, and curls an arm around her waist to bring her closer, even while she toys with the buttons of the shirt she chose for him.

“I wonder,” he begins, and has to stop to clear his throat, because he can’t recognize his own voice, so rough with arousal. “I wonder what you were thinking this morning when you chose this.”

“I was thinking,” Her voice hitches when he pulls down the straps of her bra to pepper kisses all over her shoulder and her upper arm. “I was thinking about that day in the lab, your hands deftly taking things apart to put them together better. And I couldn’t help thinking, then, and I still wonder about it now, if you would be able to do the same with me.”

“Do what?” He bats his eyelashes at her while he pulls down the fabric that covers her breasts; the color looks too good on her to take it completely off. He knows exactly what she wants, but the only idea of hearing the request on her voice sends spikes of arousal down his already uncomfortably hard cock.

Her eyes flutter closed when he sucks a nipple inside his mouth, and he rubs his head against the hand that came to sit gently over his curls, encouraging her to grab them harder.

“Take me apart. And put me together too.” She tangles her fingers on his curls, and when he curls his tongue around her, she opens her eyes to glare down at him. “You are wearing way too many clothes.”

He relinquishes a little and unbuttons his own shirt, but doesn’t bother to take it off, instead going back to his ministrations fondling and stroking and worshipping her breasts. Jemma lets him be, but pushes aside his shirt until it falls off his shoulders and the only thing keeping it on are the arms.

“That’s much better.” She tugs gently on his hair, and makes him a come-hither gesture when he looks up. 

He relocates himself reluctantly, and the very first thing Jemma does is tug on his shirt until it comes off completely; he feels a little self-conscious like this, showing this woman who is nothing short of a goddess his pasty, shapeless chest, but Jemma lures him into a hard kiss, their bodies pressed flush together, and the contact skin on skin makes him forget a little about his insecurities. She kisses him intently until his head is reeling with it, her hungry tongue exploring every inch of his mouth. She has managed, without him even noticing it, to be sitting on his lap once again, straddling his legs, a nice do-over of their previous kiss.

“You are gorgeous,” he whispers against her lips; he was barely able to hold it in before, now that he knows that he is allowed to say it, and more importantly, allowed to _ feel  _ it, there is no holding him back.

She rewards him with a thousand watts smile, and he doesn't want to get too ahead of himself in this situation, but it’s a little terrifying the tenderness this woman can inspire in him, sitting half-naked on his lap and everything. Jemma rubs her nose against his, and Fitz tightens his hold on her hips.

“I am a fan of your hands, that has already been stated.” He uses a little more pressure on his fingers to acknowledge the praise, and Jemma hums in the back of her throat; chances are high that there will be marks there still on the morning, and a thrill runs down his stomach. “Maybe it’s time that you show me a little more about what you can do with them, yeah?”

He is afraid, for one second, that her request will be too much pressure on his shoulders, that he will get performative fright or that he will feel inadequate. But it’s a fleeting fear, because she is looking at him with bright eyes, and the power of the trust on her eyes and the intimacy they are sharing is enough to make him feel that, yes, he can please this woman, mostly because he needs to believe that she is getting off on the buildup as much as he is.

He is, after all, a prodigy, and he can do whatever he puts his mind on, and he really wants to do this.

It takes a little of maneuvering, but he is able to stand up without letting go of her on his lap, and she yelps a little, but gets the gist of it very fast and ties her legs around his waist to hold on and also to help him with the balance.

“You know, I like you for your brain and for your heart, but this is a nice bonus,” she murmurs, his breath hot and humid on his ear, and he squeezes her arse, a little to help him not lose it, a lot because  _ this little tease. _

“Hope you like what there is to come, then.” His voice sounds strangled from the effort while he lays her on her bed as ceremoniously as he can; he is, still, a little afraid and a lot hopeful.

She kneels on the bed and she tugs on his belt loops to drag him closer. Her gaze is encouraging and adoring all at the same time, and it makes his breath catch; maybe he is not as out of his depth as he first thought. “I _ know  _ I will.”

* * *

There is not much talking after that.

There is, instead a lot of kissing and some laughing. Fitz believes that, with time- oh, dear lord, let them have time-  they will find themselves talking _ a lot  _ during sex, the same way they do in almost every aspect of life they have shared so far. 

But this time they are discovering each other and themselves in complementarity to each other, and they are scientists after all: they are learning how the pieces work together before they can take full advantage of the process.

Jemma is pliant under his hands, but also demanding and very certain of what she likes and what she wants; Fitz doesn’t feel intimidated by her obvious experience, instead, it makes him feel safe and spurs him on: the challenge he is now facing is to make Jemma, who is a noted sexual hummingbird, want to stay.

It’s only a step in the right direction, and not the end of the road, but he feels on the right track when she wakes him up with warm tea and toast, and a playful smile on her lips. The sunlight brings out a golden shine on her hair and Fitz takes the tray out of her hands to tumble her down on the bed next to him again, and kisses her and kisses her and kisses her until nothing else on the world exists besides them.

* * *

Daisy surprises them two days later with an impromptu brunch and a shit-eating grin.

“That smile makes me me think that our ruse to get you and Mack together worked its magic,” Fitz tries to tease her nonchalantly while he butters up a scon.

Daisy snorts and Jemma blushes, averting her eyes. Fitz looks from one to the other, scrutinizing them.

“Do you mean that the ruse _ I  _ put together with Mack’s reluctancy to get _ you two _ together worked its magic,” Daisy counters with a playful tone. “Since, you know, I have been dating Mack for eight months now?”

He probably looks ridiculous with his mouth hanging open like a fish, but he can’t help himself when they have been so obviously played… except that Jemma looks so guilty that he might have been the only one played?

“Did you know about this?” He can not find it within himself to be actually mad with her; not when he was so obviously head over heels with her and  things are going so well for them now.

“Um, maybe?” She sounds sheepish, and Fitz raises a single eyebrow to get her to elaborate. “Like, not from the beginning? But I might have caught them making out right before the party and, um, well, you know. I was already trying to get in your pants, so why not keep the charade a little longer and try to seize the opportunity, you know?”

He pulls her into his lap, and she wraps her arms around his neck instantanely; Daisy rolls her eyes at them while she pours the margaritas.

“Do you think you can find it in yourself to forgive me?” She is playing dirty, with her fingers curling around his neck, and her tongue already shaping the shell of his ear, regardless of Daisy’s presence. He is not mad with her, but two can play this game.

“Oh, I don’t think I can forgive you just like that. I think that you will have to make it up to me.”

She laughs, placing her head on the space between his neck and his shoulders that seems to exist with that sole purpose. 

“I’m not sure if you’d rather I make it up to you with sex or I let you name the drones after the seven dwarves after all.”

He grins, his heart thumping happily inside his chest. 

“Why not both?”

“Ugh, gross. Remember me why did I bother to get you locked up in your lab? You are so gross.”

Daisy is pretending to be disgusted, but her wide smile is really hurting her credibility. Fitz sticks his tongue out at her.

“You know what they say: don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, Daisy.”

**Author's Note:**

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